I float on currents of the past,
with eyes to the sky,
ears submerged,
and hands dragged along the streambed.
My fingers mingle with smooth stones
that tell me a story
of heartache
redemption
and sharp edges worn down with time.
I pass by stoic boulders,
rough and slick and calm.
Sitting still, but not rooted.
I feel them listening
for a force
so extraordinary,
so impossible,
so rare,
even they doubt it will come.
But their very existence
proves that it will.